


if i know you, i know what you'll do

by thewalrus_said



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Actual Disney Prince Yusuf, Alternate Universe - Sleeping Beauty Fusion, Fairy Tale Curses, Injury, M/M, Prince Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Royalty, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: When he is three years old, Prince Nicky of Genoa meets his betrothed, the royal baby Yusuf al-Kaysani, who is promptly cursed by the evil fairy known as Merrick.Eighteen years later, they meet again under very different circumstances.(A Sleeping Beauty AU.)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 131





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Just a note - while I don't have this fully written _yet_ , I sat down to start it yesterday and 6.5k poured out of me like water, so I don't really have any worries about it taking too long to finish, haha.
> 
> Also, I know I switched their ages, but come on. Aurora!Joe is just too perfect.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

In the future, Nicky’s memories of the ceremony would be primarily framed by his father’s legs, crouched as Nicky was behind them, attempting to hide from the crowd and trying desperately to remember to keep his thumb out of his mouth.

“Come, my little Nicky,” his father had boomed that morning, scooping Nicky off the floor and settling him on his knee. “Today you meet your betrothed! Aren’t you excited?”

Nicky hadn’t known what a betrothed was, so he just nodded, hand moving mindlessly up to his mouth. His father pulled it back down. “You must be on your best behavior,” the man said sternly. “We mustn’t give King Ibrahim reason to regret his choice.”

“No, Father,” Nicky had said, folding his hands in his lap instead.

His father had kissed him on the forehead and passed him off to his nanny to be washed and dressed for the occasion.

A few hours later, they had descended from the rooms King Ibrahim had kindly set aside for their use during their visit, Nicky stumbling over his feet to keep up with his royal father down the grand staircases and through the ornate halls until they had finally arrived at the great receiving hall where the ceremony would take place.

Nicky tugged at his father’s pant leg, wanting to be picked up, but his father just shook his head. “You must meet your betrothed on our own two feet, Nicky my lad,” he said. “You are young, but it is your first duty as a man.”

As a man? Nicky was still a little fuzzy on his numbers, but even he knew that  _ three _ was a long way from  _ man. _ But he just nodded and tried not to fidget as the great doors were opened and the waiting crowd began to move inside.

As the prince’s betrothed, Nicky and his father were afforded a spot at the front of the crush. His father put a hand on his shoulder, which Nicky was grateful for as he gazed at the royal family of Maghreb. King Ibrahim was a forbidding man, even sterner-looking than Nicky’s father, and Queen Mariem was beautiful, even though queens were forbidden to smile. Next to them stood a large, ornate cradle, its walls sweeping too high for Nicky to see inside.

On King Ibrahim’s other side stood three figures, incongruously clad in bright colors;  _ fairies, _ Nicky realized instantly, recognizing them from tales his nanny told him when his father wasn’t listening. There were two women, one in red and one in blue, and a man next to them in green. Nicky hadn’t known there were  _ men _ fairies; his nanny’s stories had only been about the women.

Nicky was still staring at them when the ceremony started; his father had to nudge him with a knee to make him snap to attention. King Ibrahim was speaking, in a language Nicky did not know, but after a few minutes he switched to French, which Nicky  _ did _ know. “We thank our guests from other countries for traveling to celebrate the birth of our son,” King Ibrahim said, his voice like a bellows coming from under the ground, “especially Doge Giovani of Genoa, and his son Prince Nicolò, who is this day to be betrothed to our son. We invite them to step forward and meet Prince Yusuf.”

“Come on, lad,” Nicky’s father hissed, “it’s time,” and drew him forward by the hand on his shoulder. “We thank you, King Ibrahim,” he said clearly, bowing low. Nicky followed suit. “It is an honor beyond measure to meet the Prince, and to gift you the hand of my son when they come of age.”

“Step forward, Nicolò,” King Ibrahim said, gesturing to the cradle, “and meet your betrothed while your father and I sign the contract.” His voice was quieter now, and kinder, and it gave Nicky the courage he needed to step up onto the dais and approach the cradle.

Behind him he could hear the scratching of quills over parchment, and he desperately wanted to turn around and watch them sign his betrothal contract, but he was supposed to meet the Prince, so instead he leaned over the walls of the cradle and looked at the baby inside.

Prince Yusuf didn’t look like a prince, Nicky concluded after a few moments. He looked like a baby. The cook in his father’s castle had had a baby a few months ago, and aside from a few variations in color and what was truly an impressive mop of curls on Yusuf’s head, the new Prince looked just like the cook’s baby. Cute, to be sure; he had a little fist curled up resting next to his cheek, and his legs kicked in his sleep, but he wasn’t commanding like his father, or beautiful like his mother. He was just a baby.

Nicky felt his father step up beside him and put another hand on his shoulder. “Well, boy,” he said, “what do you think of your future husband?”

“Do I have to?” Nicky asked quietly, looking up at him.

“Yes, Nicky,” his father said solemnly. “I’ve just signed the papers, and Genoa needs the alliance.”

Nicky swallowed, looking back down at the baby in the cradle. “Then I will do my duty.”

“Good lad.” His father led him away, back down to their spot in the crowd.

The ceremony went on and on, person after person being introduced to the Prince and making their bows to the King and Queen. Nicky leaned against his father’s legs and tried not to nod off.

He perked up when King Ibrahim said, “To conclude the ceremony, the fairies, three representatives from whom we have here today, have agreed to give three gifts to our son. Andromache, Quynh, Sebastien, please step forward.”

Nicky’s thumb drifted toward his mouth as the red and blue women and the green man stepped forward; he caught himself just before it touched his lip and snapped his hand back down to his side. The fairies arrayed themselves opposite the King and Queen, and the red woman stepped forward. “We thank you for your hospitality, King Ibrahim, Queen Mariem,” she said. “With your permission I will approach the cradle and deliver my gift.” The King gestured, and with a nod she stepped past him, drawing right up to the cradle’s edge.

To Nicky’s delight, from her sleeve she drew a long, thin wand, holding it over the baby. In a clear, ringing voice, she said, “I, Andromache of the fairies, do gift to Prince Yusuf the gift of wisdom.” She twirled the wand through the air, and a shower of sparkles fell down into where Nicky knew the baby lay sleeping. “For all his days, may he be wise and intelligent and fair-minded.”

Andromache drew back, and the blue woman moved up to stand next to the cradle. “I, Quynh of the fairies, do gift to Prince Yusuf the gift of song,” she said, waving her wand in turn to create another shower of sparkles. “For all his days, may his voice bring joy to all who hear it.”

Nicky couldn’t be sure, but it looked to him like Andromache was rolling her eyes as Quynh stepped back into line beside her. He snickered, prompting his father to nudge him again with his knee.

The green man took a step, but before he could approach the cradle, there was a huge  _ crack _ through the air, and a swirl of smoke, and then there was another figure standing between him and the baby, a crow perched on his shoulder, and a long scepter in his hand.

Queen Mariem threw herself over the cradle, and Andromache sneered, “Merrick. What are  _ you _ doing here?”

The man, dressed in long, sumptuous black robes with a collar that arched high behind his head, laughed. “Why, Andromache,” he said, in a simpering voice that grated across Nicky’s nerves and sent him scuttling behind his father’s legs. “I’m here for the baby, same as you. I apologize for getting the timing wrong, but my invitation seems to have gotten lost on its way to me.”

“There was no invitation,” King Ibrahim said bravely. “You weren’t wanted.”

Through his father’s legs, Nicky saw Quynh wince. “Not wanted?” Merrick said softly, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Oh, how terribly embarrassing. I  _ do _ apologize for barging in like this. One rudeness does not excuse another.”

“Take your crow and go,” Andromache said, holding her wand aloft threateningly. “You will harm no one here today.”

“Today?” Merrick asked lightly, fingering his scepter. “No, I will not harm anyone here  _ today. _ I’ve come to give the child a gift, and that is what I will do.”

“No gift of yours—” the King started, but Merrick snapped his fingers and the King’s voice died. He clutched at his throat and looked to the fairies beseechingly.

Merrick spun on his heel and approached the cradle. Queen Mariem snatched the baby up and cradled him to her chest. “You will not harm my son,” she said, her voice wavering but loud.

“Your protection is noble,” Merrick said, “but ultimately meaningless. My magic cannot be stopped by a mother’s love.” He raised his voice. “Prince Yusuf has had the misfortune to be raised by two  _ exceedingly _ rude parents, who do not know the rules of hospitality and what is due to power. Therefore, my gift is that he will not live to realize this. He has been gifted wisdom, and so I say, before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday, when wisdom has ripened enough to see the truth of his parents, he will die.”

“No!” the Queen shrieked, and the King made an aborted rush at Merrick, which was stopped by the crow leaping off Merrick’s shoulder and attacking him, knocking him to the ground. “Before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday,” Merrick repeated, louder over the Queen’s wails, “he will prick his finger on a spinning wheel, and life will flee from his body, and he need never know the shame his family would surely lay at his feet.”

He slammed his scepter against the ground and a shock wave went through the room, nearly dropping Nicky to his knees. He clung to his father’s legs to stay upright; his father’s hand reached around behind him to rest on Nicky’s head. “Come, Keane,” Merrick said, and the crow left off attacking the King and returned to Merrick’s shoulder. “Enjoy your son,” Merrick said, snickering. “While you have him.” He spun, and another cloud of smoke erupted around him; when it dissipated, he was gone.

Queen Mariem was on her knees, weeping over the babe cradled in her arms. King Ibrahim was bleeding from several cuts to his face and arms, but he crawled across the floor to throw his arms around his wife and son. “Do something,” he begged, turning to face the fairies. “Andromache,  _ do something.” _

“I cannot,” Andromache said, voice and face sorrowful. “I have already given my gift, as has Quynh.”

“Your son’s salvation rests on Sebastien’s shoulders now,” Quynh said, putting a hand on the green man’s shoulder and shoving him forward a few paces.

The green man looked queasy, but he drew his wand from his sleeve and approached the weeping royal family. He knelt, and, still sobbing, Queen Mariem held the baby out to him. “I cannot undo Merrick’s curse in its entirety,” Sebastian said. His voice was quiet but somehow it carried over the hushed crowd. “But I may be able to adjust it slightly.”

He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, then opened them again and raised his wand. “I, Sebastien of the fairies, do gift Prince Yusuf the gift of sleep,” he intoned. “Not death upon the prick of his finger, but an unending, dreamless sleep, to be awoken by true love’s first kiss.” He twirled his wand, and a shower of green sparkles fell upon the baby, who was, somehow, still asleep.

“Thank you,” King Ibrahim said, clutching at Sebastien’s shoulders.  _ “Thank you, _ Sebastien of the fairies.”

“Do not thank me,” Sebastien said wretchedly, carefully detaching the King’s grasp from his shirt. “It is the best I can do, but there is no guarantee true love will be found to waken your son.”

“It is hope,” Queen Mariem said, tucking Prince Yusuf back into her chest.

“And there is more hope besides,” King Ibrahim said, getting himself under control again. “I will have every spinning wheel in the kingdom destroyed, so none will exist to prick my son’s finger.”

“That will not stop Merrick’s curse,” Andromache said.

“Then what will?” King Ibrahim asked, turning to her and standing again. His cuts had stopped bleeding, but he still looked a ferocious figure. “Can you stop it?”

Andromache opened her mouth, but Quynh spoke first. “We know not,” she said, her musical voice ringing out. “We have never tried to counter him directly. But we can take the child, and we can protect him.”

“Take...” King Ibrahim looked astonished. “Take him where?”

“Away,” Andromache said. “There is no guarantee Merrick will be content to wait eighteen years for an attempt on the Prince’s life. We can protect him until then, the three of us.”

“Eighteen years,” the King breathed. He turned back to the Queen. “Mariem...”

“It is hope,” the Queen said again, struggling to her feet with her son in her arms. “Ibrahim, we have no other choice.”

Ibrahim gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded. “We have no other choice,” he echoed.

Queen Mariem kissed the child and passed him to her husband, who also pressed a long kiss to his forehead. “Take him,” he said, offering the bundle in his arms to Sebastien, the nearest fairy. “Take him and keep him safe.”

Sebastien took Prince Yusuf in his arms. “We will,” he said solemnly. “We will return him to you on his eighteenth birthday.”

“Yes,” King Ibrahim said, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “And he’ll be married at once, to ensure there is a true love to kiss him awake, should Merrick’s curse not be avoided.” He looked out at Nicky’s father, and Nicky was suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Nicky’s father said. He pulled Nicky out from behind him. “My son will be ready.”

“Good.” King Ibrahim clapped his hands together. “So will it happen. Take him, now, before my nerve fails me.”

“We will keep him safe,” Quyhn said, laying a hand on his arm, and then, the baby carefully cradled in Sebastien’s arms, the fairies departed.

A wave of exhaustion hit Nicky like a rock to the head and he swayed, his hand still firmly clenched in the fabric of his father’s trousers. “Come, lad,” he heard his father say, and then he was lifted into the man’s arms. “It’s been a long evening. Let’s get you to bed.” Nicky laid his head on his father’s shoulders and was asleep before they had left the receiving hall.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al-Tayyib woke on the morning of his eighteenth birthday with a start, like he’d been shaken awake, instead of accompanied by soft birdsong and the sound of wind through the trees.
> 
> _Eighteen_. It was about time.

Al-Tayyib woke on the morning of his eighteenth birthday with a start, like he’d been shaken awake, instead of accompanied by soft birdsong and the sound of wind through the trees.

_ Eighteen. _ It was about time.

He rose, gathering his clothes for the day and his bar of soap, and went downstairs. Aunt Andy was already there, kneading dough for the day’s bread. She greeted him with a warm smile. “Good morning, birthday boy,” she said, leaning over so al-Tayyib could kiss her on the cheek. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” he said.

She snorted. “You  _ could _ sleep through anything as a baby. Slept through the loudest things...”

“Like what?” al-Tayyib tried, although he knew he’d get no response. His aunts and uncle were notoriously tight-lipped about his early years.

Sure enough, she just pursed her lips and shook her head. “All sorts. Off to bathe with you, go on. The others will be down soon.”

Al-Tayyib gave a good-natured sigh and went out of their little cottage, nearly skipping with happiness, toward the creek that ran behind it. He stripped off his nightclothes and waded in, washing himself quickly in the cool water.

Once clean, he spread himself naked on the grass to dry, shutting his eyes and dozing while listening to the birds continue their songs. More than once Uncle Booker had caught him at it with a yelp and a command to cover himself, but al-Tayyib liked the feel of the grass on his bare back.

Eventually, dry and dressed for the day, he meandered back inside, whistling a little to himself.

Uncle Booker and Aunt Quynh had joined Aunt Andy in the kitchen, and when he came in they all turned and cried, “Happy birthday!” Even Uncle Booker had a smile, and al-Tayyib couldn’t help but grin back as Aunt Quynh came forward to wrap him in a tight hug.

“Eighteen years,” she said, ruffling his still-damp curls. “I can hardly believe it.”

“I can,” Uncle Booker said drily, and Aunt Andy swatted his arm.

“Be nice,” she commanded, pointing a dough-covered finger at him. “It’s the boy’s birthday.”

“It is,” he snapped back, startling al-Tayyib and Aunt Quynh too, judging from the way she jumped. “And we all know what  _ that _ means.”

“What?” al-Tayyib asked, looking between his uncle and aunt. “What does it mean?”

“Nothing,” Aunt Andy said, not looking away from Uncle Booker until he sighed and broke eye contact first. “Just that you’re a man now. We should start charging you rent.”

Al-Tayyib laughed. “Unless you want me to pay in berries, Aunt Andy, you’re out of luck. You won’t let me into the town to earn any real money.”

“Well then, berries it is,” she said. “Hop to it, then, young man.” She jerked her head at the door, where the berry basket hung from a nail.

“You expect me to start working for my keep  _ today?” _ al-Tayyib asked, aghast. “It’s my birthday!”

“And if you want your birthday  _ surprise,” _ Aunt Quynh said, “you’ll give us the cabin for a few hours to get it prepared. Off with you now, go on, and don’t come back before midafternoon.”

“That’s hours!” al-Tayyib protested.

“You’d better pick enough berries for lunch,” Uncle Booker said.

Al-Tayyib stuck out his tongue at him. “Fine,” he said, going to the door. “But my birthday surprise had better be a good one.”

“It will be,” Uncle Booker said, in a tone a little more ominous than jolly. Al-Tayyib frowned at him, but he just made a shooing motion until al-Tayyib gave in and left.

Al-Tayyib, apparently, had hours to kill, and he knew Aunt Andy would be cross if he didn’t actually come back with a basketful of berries, and that meant crossing the forest to the other side of the valley, where the blackberry and blueberry bushes grew in tandem over a carpet of wild strawberries.

He whistled as he walked, spinning the empty basket on his wrist. After about a quarter of an hour, he noticed a bluebird keeping pace with him. He whistled a little tune at it, and to his delight, the bluebird sang it back to him.

Several more birds had joined his train by the time he made it to the berry bushes, and al-Tayyib was out of breath from whistling songs for them. He fell silent as he started filling the basket, but they didn’t fly away, just settled on the branches of nearby trees and watched him work.

The berry basket was large, and he’d picked three big bushes clean by the time it was nearly full. He flopped into the cradle of a large tree’s roots to rest, idly popping berries in his mouth to sate his hunger.

_ It’s my eighteenth birthday, _ he thought to himself, not for the first time.  _ That’s meant to mean something. _ His aunts and uncle always got him a present, on the order of a new tunic or fresh strings for his lute or new pencils for his art, and this year would probably be more of the same.

It itched under his skin, the certainty that he wanted  _ more. _ He was eighteen, a man now; surely that meant it was time to strike out on his own? Forge his own way, have adventures, find his calling. Find a purpose for his life.

_ Find a lover, _ a sighing little voice said in the back of his head, and he knocked it back against the tree trunk.  _ A lover would be nice, _ he admitted to himself, biting his lip. He loved his aunts and uncle, but he had started to crave  _ more _ the past few years; more love, more  _ people _ in his life.

“And where am I meant to find a lover?” al-Tayyib heard himself ask, directed at a squirrel that had come searching for the acorns that littered the grass around him. He laughed and tossed one to the squirrel. “Will you be my lover?” he asked. “My prince in disguise, cursed into a squirrel’s form by an evil witch?”

The squirrel chattered at him, daring to come a little closer. He held still so as not to scare it off. “Shall I woo you?” he asked it, then turned his face up to the birds that still sat perched on branches above him. “Or maybe one of you is my prince?” he asked. “Shall I sing to you, to win your heart?”

As one, the birds started jabbering, insistent and frantic. Al-Tayyib laughed and held up his hands. “Alright,” he said, “alright, peace, my princes. A song you demand, and a song you shall have.”

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and began to sing.

There was always a song at his lips, whenever he reached for one, and now was no exception. He started with a simple hummed melody, and let it grow into a flowing tune that took his whole voice to sing, lilting and echoing through the trees. The birds and the squirrel were all silent as the trees themselves, and when he opened his eyes again, drawing the song to a close, he found them all staring at him, seemingly enraptured.

Al-Tayyib found himself blushing. “Well?” he asked, to shake himself out of it. “Have I won your heart, my princes?”

“You’ve certainly won mine,” came a voice from behind him. Al-Tayyib let out a sound that was altogether too close to a yelp for his comfort and flung himself to the other side, spinning and knocking over the basket of berries.

“Oh dear,” came the voice again, and this time al-Tayyib could see it came from a young man, dressed finely and lounging against the tree al-Tayyib had been sitting against. “You’ve lost your berries.”

“Who are you?” al-Tayyib breathed, clutching a hand to his shirt to quell his beating heart. A  _ person. _ A  _ man, _ like him and Uncle Booker, but one he did not know. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a few moments,” the stranger said. To al-Tayyib’s surprise, he knelt and began reaching for the spilled berries, gathering them back into the basket, which he righted. “Your song called me.”

“Oh.” Al-Tayyib gaped at him, then shook himself and gathered a handful of berries. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I startled you,” the stranger said. “It’s no trouble.”

Al-Tayyib went to put his handful back in the basket at the same moment the stranger did, and their fingers brushed. He gasped. “Your skin is warm.”

The man smiled at him, clearly puzzled. “Should it not be?”

Al-Tayyib didn’t know why he was startled. He’d touched his aunts and uncle before, of course he had, and  _ they _ were warm. But this man seemed to burn, the heat of his touch lingering on al-Tayyib’s skin even after he’d snatched his hand back. “Who are you?” he asked again, to cover himself.

“You mean you don’t know me?”

“How could I know you?” Al-Tayyib got the rest of the berries into the basket and stood. The man did the same.

“We’ve met before,” he said. That strange smile was still on his face, wrinkling his cheeks and what was, in al-Tayyib’s limited experience, a  _ very _ impressive nose. It made al-Tayyib want to look at him more, afraid even to blink for fear of missing—something, he knew not what.

“No, we haven’t,” he said. “I would have remembered.”  _ I don’t meet many people,  _ he almost said, biting his tongue before it could escape him.

“No?” The stranger’s smile grew. “But I dreamed of you last night. I’m certain of it.”

Al-Tayyib’s heart was pounding. “Oh.” He was blushing again, he realized distantly, and rubbed the back of his neck to try and dissipate the heat. “What did we do, in your dream? I do not remember it.”

“That is a shame.” The man took a step forward. “We walked together, and talked together, and when you opened your mouth and began to sing, I took you in my arms and we danced together.”

He approached gently, non-threateningly. Al-Tayyib could have stopped him at any moment, but he didn’t, not even when the man pulled the basket from his grip, set it on the ground, and took his now-free hand, his other resting like a burning brand on al-Tayyib’s hip. “Sing?” he requested, his voice as soft as the breath that ghosted across al-Tayyib’s lips, and al-Tayyib sang.

Al-Tayyib had danced before, around the kitchen with Aunt Quynh, but never like this. The stranger swept him around the clearing, trodding wild strawberries underfoot, but al-Tayyib could not even be sorry for the waste, lost as he was in the man’s eyes. They were a strange green color, almost identical to the leaves and grass around them. He hadn’t stopped smiling, but it had softened, and he directed al-Tayyib through the steps by the hand on his waist, which was still so burning hot that al-Tayyib was convinced there would be a hole in his tunic. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

They danced for what felt like hours, their eyes never leaving each other, and al-Tayyib sang all the while, until his throat was sore and his lungs were empty. They came to a halt gradually, and al-Tayyib only noticed how close they had gotten when the stranger’s nose brushed his own.

Aunt Andy’s face flashed across his mind. He jerked backward.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger said, releasing him at once. “I did not mean to—”

“It’s alright,” al-Tayyib said, breath coming heavy and rasping. “I just... I cannot.”

“Why not?” The stranger’s hands were still raised from where they had been holding onto al-Tayyib. “I know you felt it too.”

“I cannot,” al-Tayyib repeated. He grabbed for the basket of berries, a few tipping over the edge in his haste. “I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers, let alone...”  _ Let alone kiss them, however entrancing their eyes are. _

“We’re not strangers,” the stranger said. “Here, my name is Nicky. Tell me yours, and we shall be acquainted properly.”

Al-Tayyib opened his mouth, but this time it was Uncle Booker’s face in his mind. “Trust no one, boy,” he said sternly, as he had on al-Tayyib’s fifteenth birthday, when he’d wanted to go into town, “for no one is trustworthy. No one but us.”

“I cannot,” he said instead, starting to back away.

“Well, when can I see you again?” the stranger called, taking a step after him.

“Never,” al-Tayyib said.

“Please,” the stranger implored, his hand reaching out. “I must see you again.”

Al-Tayyib bit his lip, his heart saying one thing and his head another. His heart won, barely. “Come to my home tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll meet you.”

“Where is your home?”

“The cottage on the other side of the valley.” And with that, al-Tayyib turned and fled, berries bouncing out of the basket with his speed. The sun was already starting to sink down from its noontime peak; he was going to be late home.

He ran the whole way, somehow not losing more than half the basket of berries, and had to put his hands on his knees and pant to catch his breath before opening the door and presenting himself to his aunts and uncle. Before he did, he cast a look over his shoulder, just to make sure the stranger had not followed him. Al-Tayyib was strangely disappointed to see no sign of him.

He expected admonishment for having been gone so long, but instead, he found his uncle and aunts clustered around something. Aunt Quynh caught sight of him and nudged the others; in unison, they leapt apart, shouting, “Happy birthday!” and gesturing at what turned out to be Aunt Quynh’s dress form, now sporting a deliciously ornate tunic and leggings, much finer than any al-Tayyib had ever seen before.

“What...” he breathed, setting the basket on the floor and coming over to touch the fabric with shaking, reverent hands. “What is this?”

“It’s your birthright,” Aunt Andy said proudly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “We had it brought from the castle, just for tonight.”

“The castle?” al-Tayyib asked, tearing his eyes away from the embroidery on the tunic’s hem. “Why would you have brought clothes from the castle?”

When he turned to her, Aunt Quynh’s eyes were sparkling. “Sit down,” she said, pressing him into a chair at the table. “This is going to be a bit of a shock,” she said, taking his hands, “but we have news for you.”

“What news?”

She bit her lip, then said, “Al-Tayyib... I’ll start there. That is not your name.”

Al-Tayyib blinked. “What? Of course it is.”

“It’s your name in the sense that it is what we have called you these past eighteen years,” Aunt Andy said, “but it is not the name you were born with.”

He looked between them, utterly lost. “I don’t understand.”

“Chicklet,” Aunt Quynh said, squeezing his fingers. “Your birth name is Yusuf. Yusuf al-Kaysani.”

Al-Tayyib looked to Uncle Booker for help. “They’re telling the truth,” he said. “And there’s more.”

“More?” al-Tayyib echoed blankly. “What more could there be?”

“Your title,” Aunt Andy said. “You are  _ Prince _ Yusuf al-Kaysani.”

_ “Prince?” _ Al-Tayyib burst out laughing. “Now I  _ know _ you are joking. Aunt Andy, it is not like you to take a joke too far. That’s more Uncle Booker’s job.”

“Hey,” the man said, sounding insulted.

“Chicklet,” Aunt Quynh said again, “this isn’t a joke, or a trick. This is the truth. You are the Prince, and tonight we have to take you back home to the palace. You’re to be married in a few days, and the King and Queen want to get to know you before then.”

_ “Married?” _ Al-Tayyib pulled his hands out of hers. “Married to whom?”

“To Prince Nicolò of Genoa,” Aunt Andy said. “You’ve been promised to each other since you were born.”

“No,” al-Tayyib said, shaking his head. “No, I won’t do it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Uncle Booker said bluntly. “The papers were signed before we took you away. The Prince and his father will be in the palace already.”

“Chicklet, I thought you’d be pleased,” Aunt Quynh said, tucking her finger under his chin. “You’ve always been such a romantic, and isn’t this every child’s dream? To secretly be a prince and marry another?”

Al-Tayyib shook his head again. “I don’t want to marry Prince Nicolò,” he said.

“Well, it’s not like you’re going to marry anyone else, living in this cottage,” Uncle Booker said.

Al-Tayyib’s eyes filled with tears. “Chicklet, what is it?” Aunt Quynh asked, brushing one aside as it fell down his cheek. “Is there someone else you wanted to marry?”

“I... I met a man,” he confessed, blinking and sending more tears from his eyes.

Aunt Andy and Aunt Quynh shared a look. “When?” Aunt Andy asked.

“Today. In the woods. He’s coming tomorrow too.”

“Damn it,” Uncle Booker swore, thumping his fist against the table. “I knew we should have kept him close, today of all days.”

“What does that mean?” al-Tayyib asked. “Earlier you said something about  _ you know what that means, _ about it being my birthday. What else aren’t you telling me?”

Uncle Booker looked at al-Tayyib’s aunts like he was daring them to stop him, then said, “There was a curse, boy.”

Al-Tayyib’s blood ran cold. “A curse?”

“Set to hit you today,” Uncle Booker said, not unkindly.

“That’s why we took you from the palace,” Aunt Quynh said. “To protect you. But it’s almost night now. It’s time to go home.”

Al-Tayyib shook his head again, and Aunt Andy sighed. “Yusuf,” she said sternly. He looked at her. “Enough of this. You are a prince of the realm, and that means you must do your duty. Forget about the man in the woods. You are promised to Prince Nicolò, and you will marry him in three days’ time. I suggest you start getting used to it.”

Fresh tears filled his eyes, and he lifted his wrist to wipe them away. While he did so, Aunt Quynh took the clothes off the dress form and handed them to him. “Why don’t you go and wash your face and get changed?” she said kindly. “Take ten minutes, put your new clothes on, and then we’ll go and meet your parents.”

His  _ parents. _ Al-Tayyib—Yusuf—al-Tayyib took the clothes numbly and went upstairs to his room.

He passed the whole journey to the palace in that same sense of numb despair. Aunt Quynh gave up trying to jolly him out of it halfway there; Aunt Andy and Uncle Booker didn’t even try, just let him pad along beside them in silence.

He blinked back to himself a little as they went through the gates of the palace, and looked around. This was his home? He much preferred the cottage. It was homier, and while it was small, he’d felt safe there. Here, he felt  _ terrified. _

His aunts and uncle led him through winding halls until they came to a door. “This is your room,” Aunt Andy said, opening it onto a lavishly-furnished sitting room. A crackling fire had been set in the grate, for which al-Tayyib was distantly grateful; the air had been cold as the sun set, and he had started to shiver as they walked through town.

Suddenly, he felt that if he had to look at them for another minute, at their smiling, hopeful faces, he would scream and scream and never stop. “Can I have a minute to myself?” he asked, stepping into the room. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Of course,” Aunt Quynh said immediately, bustling the others out of the doorway. “We’ll come get you when it’s time to meet the King and Queen. You take some time and get adjusted.”

“Thank you,” he said, and swung the door shut.

There were many places to sit in the room, but he chose the chair by the vanity, a large mirror arcing above it. He dropped heavily into the chair and peered forward, inspecting his face in the mirror by the light of the fire, and a few candles on the vanity that had been lit when he came in.

He didn’t  _ look _ like a prince, not even in his fancy new clothes, which were already slightly sweaty from their walk. He just looked like al-Tayyib, the same as he had this morning, and every morning before that, his whole life long.

“I can’t be a prince,” he said aloud, watching his lips shape the words in the mirror. “I’m going to go home and meet the stranger from the forest and marry  _ him, _ not Prince Nicolò, whoever he is.”

The words sounded empty and hollow, echoing around the spacious room. He sighed, dropping his cheek onto his hand.

The room was quiet. He could hear the soft sounds of his aunts and uncle talking just outside his door—but there was something else, too. Another voice, coming from the other side of the room.

He spun around. The voice was  _ familiar _ somehow. But there was no one there. It took him a moment to realize what  _ had _ changed about the room—the fire was out, and instead of the back of the fireplace, there was a dark, empty corridor.

The voice came again, a little louder, and al-Tayyib recognized it this time. “Nicky?” he called, stepping up to the fireplace. “Nicky, is that you?”

“Al-Tayyib,” Nicky called. His voice reverberated around the corridor beyond the fireplace. “Al-Tayyib, come find me.”

Al-Tayyib hadn’t told Nicky his name, he remembered with a start. But that was definitely Nicky’s voice, and al-Tayyib found himself suddenly unable to resist it. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the fireplace and over the threshold into the corridor.

There were stairs, twisting and folding back on themselves, climbing higher than al-Tayyib had ever dreamed of going. “Come find me!” Nicky’s voice called from somewhere above him. Al-Tayyib began to climb.

It was a long climb. Al-Tayyib’s legs began to ache early on, and the pain only got worse the higher he climbed, but every time he thought of resting, Nicky’s voice would echo through the stairwell, urging him on and up.

After a time, he heard other voices, even more familiar voices, his aunts and uncle crying, “Yusuf! Yusuf!” But in his single-minded frenzy, he could not remember who Yusuf was, and Nicky was so sweetly calling for  _ him, _ al-Tayyib, and so he kept climbing.

Finally, after more stairs than al-Tayyib had thought existed in the  _ world, _ he reached a landing, with a single, plain door. Nicky’s voice came from behind it. “I’m in here,” he called. Al-Tayyib put his hand on the knob and entered.

“Nicky?” he said, looking around the room. “I’m here.”

“I’m here,” Nicky echoed, but there was no sign of him in the room. The voice seemed to be coming from—from  _ something, _ sitting on the floor in the corner. Al-Tayyib had no idea what it might be, but it had a large wheel attached to the back—or was it the front? On the other end was an arm, with a spike coming to a shining point.

“Al-Tayyib,” Nicky’s voice came again, more insistent this time. “Come find me, al-Tayyib.” It was definitely coming from the strange contraption. Al-Tayyib approached it.

The spike shone in his vision, growing bigger and more glittering until it drowned everything else out. Just the sound of Nicky’s voice in his ears, and that single, sharp peak. Unable to stop himself, al-Tayyib reached out and touched it.

The pain shocked him back into himself, and his head began to swim immediately. “Nicky?” he tried to say, but it came out slurred and garbled. A bead of blood formed where the spike had pricked him, and his head spun even more.

The last thing he saw, before he fell to the ground, were his aunts and uncle, bursting into the room with ashen, terrified faces. He wanted to reach out to them. His arm, though, slumped to the floor, and his eyes fell shut.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky saddled his horse in the dim light of the sunrise through the trees, whistling to himself as he worked. It was the same tune the man in the glen had sung the day before; Nicky had not been able to get it out of his head all night.
> 
> Not that he had tried very hard, of course, or even at all. He wanted to keep every moment, every note as crystal-clear in his mind as water. It had been the best afternoon of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update schedule was stressing me out, so surprise! Have the rest of it all at once.
> 
> NOTE: This chapter contains a brief discussion of an injury. For more details, see the end notes.

Nicky saddled his horse in the dim light of the sunrise through the trees, whistling to himself as he worked. It was the same tune the man in the glen had sung the day before; Nicky had not been able to get it out of his head all night.

Not that he had tried very hard, of course, or even at all. He wanted to keep every moment, every note as crystal-clear in his mind as water. It had been the best afternoon of his life.

He’d spent the night in the forest. His father would _murder_ him for missing his re-introduction to the Maghrebian royal family, but there was nothing for it. Nicky had fallen in _love,_ and therefore could no longer marry the prince, and that was simply all there was to it.

 _The cottage on the other side of the valley,_ his love had said. Not much to go on, but Nicky had a few clues, the first being the creek Sampson had all but walked into. If there was a house, odds are it would be on the water. He picked a direction and followed it, gratified to see telltale signs of well-worn footpaths springing up as he carried on, proof that he had chosen the right way.

It was another half an hour before he saw it, but then, all of a sudden, there it was: a picture-perfect cottage, like something out of a storybook, nestled into a curve in the creek. It was barely two stories tall, more like one and a half, and even this early in the day smoke was pouring merrily out of the chimney.

Nicky dismounted and tied Sampson to a nearby tree. “Wish me luck?” he whispered to the horse, who whinnied softly and nuzzled him.

Nicky approached the house, deciding that the window in the abbreviated upper story was likely to be his new love’s room. He found a pebble and tossed it; it lightly cracked against the glass and fell to the ground again. Strange that a country cottage should have _glass_ windows, he suddenly realized. Perhaps his love was wealthy. That would certainly make things go down easier with his father.

“My love?” he called. “I have come, as you bid me.”

“I’m in here,” came that achingly beautiful voice, familiar after only one day—not from the upper story, but out from the front door. “Come inside and meet my family.”

Nicky brushed himself down, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The interior was dark—where was the light from the fire. “My love?” he called again.

“Step inside,” the man called. Nicky obeyed, leaving the door open behind him as his feet crossed the threshold into the little house.

Instantly, something long and thin and whippy wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his torso and his legs together. He struggled, years of combat training kicking in, but it only drew the ropes tighter. Something came flying over his head and lodged itself in his mouth, some foul strip of cloth that stung on Nicky’s tongue and prevented him from crying out.

“Don’t struggle,” his love’s voice said. “It will only make things worse for you.” But as it spoke, it was no longer his love’s voice, growing higher, crueler—and strangely familiar, ringing a bell deep in the recesses of Nicky’s memory.

He stopped struggling, and the voice laughed. “Good,” it purred, “a smart boy.” Something was moving in the darkness, and then the figure belonging to the voice moved out of the shadows into the light thrown by the open door.

It couldn’t be. Nicky knew that face, knew those robes, knew _that voice_ —but it had been a nightmare, a child’s dream of ghouls and fairy-tale evil. It wasn’t _real._ If it had been real, his father would have mentioned it when speaking of the ceremony, but he never had, and so Nicky had written this man, this _demon,_ off as a terrible dream.

“Merrick,” he spat, as much as he could through the gag. It came out as _Murck,_ but even that made the slender man grin.

“Could it be?” he wondered, long fingers caressing his scepter as he stepped up close to Nicky. “Have I caught the prince, the betrothed, now the true love in truth? How _wonderful.”_

Nicky didn’t bother speaking again, just glowered as hard as he could, arms straining futilely against the ropes that bound him with the urge to grab this being by the throat and end his life.

Merrick noticed, and chuckled again. “Oh, you’re a feisty one, my pet,” he crooned. He lifted the scepter and traced its orb from one of Nicky’s cheeks, down under his mouth and to the other. “We can’t have that.” He cracked Nicky sharply on the forehead with it, and the world went black.

Nicky awoke in a cell—a dungeon, more accurately. Like the cottage, it was straight out of a storybook: dingy, dank, wet. The manacles attached to his arms and legs clinked when he startled awake. The gag was still in his mouth.

Merrick was standing before him, scepter brandished in front of him. “I’ve decided what I’m going to do with you, while you slept,” he said, as though declaring what he’d decided on for dinner. “True love’s kiss was decreed, and true love’s kiss the Prince shall have. A dreamless, ageless sleep lies upon him, but no such blessing lies upon _you._ You will not die within these walls, not without my permission, and so I think I shall keep you for, oh, a hundred years or so, before setting you off to wake your beloved. Won’t he be _delighted_ to see you then?”

That cruel smile split Merrick’s face again, and Nicky couldn’t help but thrust his whole body forward. He knew it would come to nothing—the manacles were too thick—but something about this man drove him to violence, and he was not inclined to hold back from that urge.

“Ta ta for now, pet,” Merrick said, wiggling his fingers in a mockery of a wave. “I’ll come back for some more vitriol when I get bored of the delights above ground. You and I will be _very_ good friends before I let you out; I just know it.”

All the light in the cell fled when Merrick let the heavy door slam shut behind him, and Nicky slumped to the ground, suddenly exhausted. What was he going to do?

The first thing was to take the measure of the chains holding him to the wall and floor. It was difficult with no light, but his eyes adjusted slightly over time. The chains were long enough that he could work the fingers of one hand into the band around the other wrist, barely, but there was no give; all it afforded him were bloody fingers.

As a boy, Nicky had spent time in the armory, chatting with the blacksmith. One day, the blacksmith had made a heavy set of manacles, not unlike the ones currently holding Nicky down. Indulging a child’s curiosity, the woman had told him what to do if he ever found himself in a pair. Nicky gritted his teeth, put his fingers to the base of his thumb, and popped it out of joint.

He screamed, of course. He had never fallen prey to the notion that it was unmanly to show pain, and anyway there was no one nearby to hear him. Panting, he adjusted his hand and tried to slip it out of the manacle.

To his mingled relief and shock, it worked; his hand slipped free from the manacle with an agonizing scrape of pain. He could feel blood flow from his wrist, but his hand was his again.

All his elation turned to rage when he realized, turning to his other hand, that without the use of his thumb he could not get the leverage to do the same again. “Am I to be felled by this?” he ground out, but there was nothing for it. He had one hand free, but he could not escape.

It would have to be enough, he told himself after maybe an hour’s black despair. One hand free was more than the next person who came in this room would expect; he would have to use it to his advantage. Despite the shooting pains from his dislocated thumb. He swore quietly.

More time passed. Hours, by Nicky’s guess, although he had never gotten the hang of telling time without the sun. The door to his cell creaked open, and he braced himself, but no one came through, just a crust of bread flung at his head before the door swung shut again.

The bread was stale, and strangely wet. Nicky ate it anyway, desperate for every scrap of strength he could keep up in this wretched place.

He forced himself to sleep, aware that letting his guard down might mean his death, or at least his pain, but again, he needed his strength. He awoke seemingly without incident, but also without any sense of how much time had passed.

He could be forgiven, then, for thinking that the little twinkles of light coming through the bars in the door were a hallucination, brought on by lack of water or hope. One red, one blue, one green, no bigger than his thumb. He watched them, content to lose his mind, if that was what this was. At least they were pretty.

The lights drew closer to him, until they were hovering right in front of his face, and then, quite clearly, the blue one said, “Oh, the poor thing, look at his thumb.”

Nicky startled back, and the lights jerked away from him. He blinked and suddenly they were not lights, but _people_ —three human-sized people, with iridescent wings sprouting from their backs.

“Wait,” he said, something about the colors ringing that same bell in his memory. “You’re the fairies! From the betrothal ceremony.”

“Wait,” the red woman said. “Prince Nicolò?”

“Yes,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “My father, he will be expecting me, and my love; Merrick has done something to my love.”

“Your love?” the green man said sharply.

Nicky nodded. “A little taller than me, with a head of springing curls and a voice like an angel come to earth.”

The two women exchanged a look—relieved? “Well, that’s convenient,” the green man muttered, stepping forward and drawing a wand out of his sleeve. “Let’s get you out of those chains, first thing.”

He tapped them with the wand and they clanked loose, clattering against the floor with a noise that made Nicky wince. There was no immediate response from outside, however, and when the blue woman reached for his hand, he let her take it.

“Clever boy, getting one hand free,” she murmured, tracing her wand over his damaged thumb. It slid smoothly back into place, the pain vanishing like it had never been. “Couldn’t get the other one out?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t get the leverage, with my hand injured.”

“Still,” the red woman said. “It shows your character, which is good. You’ll need all your virtue to get out of this.”

“Where are we?” Nicky asked. “Can you get me out of here? I have to find—”

“Your love,” the red woman said. “Your love is Prince Yusuf, and he lies several miles away in an enchanted sleep that only you can wake him from.”

“He’s _Prince Yusuf?”_ Nicky asked, bewildered. “Why wasn’t he in the palace?”

“You remember us,” the red woman said. “That means you remember the curse Merrick placed on him.” Nicky cast his mind back and nodded. “We took him away to keep him safe, but we brought him back too soon, and Merrick caught him. The King and Queen are frantic, and your father is in no better state.”

His _father..._ “Can you get me out of here?” Nicky asked again, more firmly.

“Yes,” the green man said. “But there are some things we need to pick up on the way.”

“What things?”

“Merrick is a smart fairy,” the blue woman said. “There is only one sword that can defeat him, and one shield that can defend against him, and he keeps them close. We need to liberate them so that you can use them to kill him and end his reign of terror once and for all.”

 _A small order,_ Nicky almost said, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in this throat. He thought of his love’s face—of _Prince Yusuf’s_ face—and forced himself to grow solemn. “Where are they?”

“Follow us.” In a flash they were floating lights again. The green one flew into the keyhole of the door, and with a _clink_ the lock unlatched. Nicky swung the door open and stepped out, closing it behind him. The longer it took anyone to realize he wasn’t there anymore, the better.

The fairies led him through the corridors, twisting and delving deeper under the earth. “Sebastien,” Nicky said suddenly, the name returning to him on a breath. “That’s your name.”

“Most call me Booker these days,” the green twinkle said. “Blue’s Quynh, red’s Andromache.”

 _“Andy,”_ the red light snapped, “and _hush.”_

Finally, they came to a door even bigger and heavier than the one guarding Nicky’s cell, with a chain and padlock keeping it shut. Booker flew into the lock again; it took three times longer than Nicky’s cell door had, but eventually it clicked open and the chains fell limp.

“Quickly,” Quynh urged, “quickly, Nicolò.”

Nicky opened the door, praying for quiet hinges, and darted inside. It was dark, but Andy flew up to the ceiling, and her red glow revealed a sword in a scabbard belt resting on a table next to a tarnished, battered shield. “This is meant to protect me?” Nicky asked, running his fingers down a long gouge in the metal.

“It will,” Quyn said. “Put them on; we have to leave quickly.”

“I’ll need armor,” Nicky said, strapping the belt on so the sword hung at his hip. He fastened the shield on his arm and stepped back out of the room.

“Armor won’t protect you, not against Merrick,” Andy said. “That shield and that sword are your best hope. Come on; your horse is tied up outside. They haven’t eaten it yet.”

“They’re going to _eat Sampson?”_

“They will if you _keep making noise,”_ she growled. _“Move.”_

They almost made it. The fairies led him around a corner, and he could _see_ out the far end, could see Sampson tied up to the wall and whinnying up a storm, reared back on his hind legs. Then a rough, coarse voice from deeper within the tunnels yelled, _“Escaped prisoner!”_ and footsteps began to pound all around them.

“Run,” Andy cried, and Nicky bolted, the sword banging against his leg as he ran harder than he’d ever run in his life. He made it outside and drew the sword, cutting through the rope that tethered Sampson. The horse recognized him and dropped down to all fours, and he swung himself up.

“Ride,” Quynh said. “We’ll guide you!” The fairies zipped away, and Nicky dug his heels into Sampson’s flanks and tore off after them.

Nicky had the best horse in all of Genoa, and he was often thankful for it, but never more so than just then, the hordes of Hell on his heels as he tore through the tower compound and out the gates, chasing three flickering balls of light as they led him through the dark forest and away. “Give me all you’ve got, boy,” Nicky murmured, leaning forward against his horse’s neck, and the beast gave a cry and galloped even faster.

To his surprise, the pursuit died down after barely half an hour. “Have we lost them?” Nicky called forward to the fairies, not slowing down an inch.

Booker broke away from the other two and darted back to settle on Nicky’s shirt under his ear. “We’ve got a worse pursuer,” he said. “Look up, but don’t let your horse see.”

Nicky looked up, and nearly fell from his saddle for the first time in his life. “Is that... Is that _Merrick?”_ he gasped as the dragon arced over them, flying faster than even Sampson could dream of toward where Nicky could see the palace reaching up from the ground.

“It’s his secret weapon,” Booker said. “Your sword can still pierce him, but you’ll need the shield for the fire.”

“The _fire?”_ Nicky cried.

“He’s a dragon,” Booker said, “what did you expect?”

The dragon—Merrick—outpaced them with just a few movements of his wings, racing toward the distant palace. Nicky could see it settle onto the grand building. “Fast as you can, boy,” Booker said in his ear. “The less time he has to prepare for you, the better.” Nicky grimaced and urged Sampson on.

The fairies brought him to a halt just outside the city walls. Sampson reared back at the sudden change in pace, but Nicky got him calm just in time for Andy to say, “He’s set up a thorn barrier through the town, starting halfway in. Your sword will take care of that.”

“The thorns will blunt it,” Nicky objected.

“Not that sword,” Quynh said. “Nothing can blunt it or rust it.”

“Magic?” Nicky asked.

“Quite so.” Quynh bobbed closer. “We’ll be with you, and we’ll give what aid we can, but we’re limited in what we can do against him, especially in this shape. This is on your shoulders now.”

Nicky flexed them unconsciously. “Right,” he said, nerves twisting in his gut. He forced himself to think of Prince Yusuf, the weight of him in Nicky’s arms, and said, “Best get started, then.”

The town was deserted, houses shuttered tight, streets empty. Nicky rode through in silence, led by the fairies right up to where the thorn wall started. It rose a few feet above his head, even seated on his horse, and the thorns themselves looked nasty and sharp. “Sorry about this, Sampson,” he murmured to his horse, “but you’ll just have to fight your way through.” He unsheathed the sword, took heart from its gleaming edge, and started to cut.

It took ages, but progress was surprisingly steady. The fairies flitted about, showing him where to cut most effectively to clear his path. Sampson took many, many tiny cuts from the thorns, but he was a good horse, and never complained beyond an affronted whinny when Nicky cut a large swath of vines down and they landed on his shoulders. “Sorry, boy,” Nicky said, lifting them carefully and throwing them aside.

Finally, after what felt like an hour amidst the thorny vines, Nicky cut a patch down and saw clear space in front of him. He urged Sampson forward and they were free, just inside the palace gates. “Well done,” Nicky told the horse, patting his neck.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Andy said, perching on his shirt. “The hard part comes now. Leave the horse; the shield won’t cover him.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Booker said. “He’ll come after you otherwise.”

Nicky swung down from the saddle and moved around to pat Sampson’s cheek. “Stay with Booker,” he told him firmly. “I don’t want you getting hurt.” Sampson whinnied and nuzzled him. With a wrench, Nicky stepped away. “Which way?”

“Merrick’s on the other side of the palace,” Quynh told him. “Follow us.”

Nicky kept his eyes on the castle as they circled it. There was no sun, or just too many clouds, but Merrick’s dark bulk made itself visible anyway, clinging to one side of the palace tower. He was much bigger than Nicky had realized, and he swallowed hard.

The fairies led him to a large courtyard. “This is your best bet for a stand against him,” Andy said. “Keep the shield ready.”

Nicky nodded, settling it on his left arm and wielding the sword with the right. “You’d best get clear,” he said grimly.

“We won’t go far,” Quynh said, and the small red and blue lights bobbed to the other side of the courtyard, tucking themselves behind a great stone column.

Nicky tapped the sword and shield together, and then bellowed, “Merrick! Let’s finish this!”

The dragon swung around toward him, and Nicky had barely a moment before he unlatched himself from the tower and lunged for him. Nicky threw the shield in front of himself, crouching down, and flames shot around and over him, searingly hot and crackling. But the shield held.

“Clever boy, to free himself from my dungeons,” Merrick croaked. His great talons crunched into the courtyard walls, crumpling them under his weight. “And to find those weapons, well done. I knew I should have dealt with those fairies before I took you.”

“Your mistake,” Nicky cried. “Come and face me.”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think I will,” Merrick said. “You can’t hide behind that shield forever, but I can keep creating fire as much as I want. We’ll see who lasts longer.”

Another gout of flame rushed toward Nicky; he barely got behind the shield in time. “Coward!” he shouted when it ended. “Come closer and see how brave you are face to face!”

“Coward?” Merrick cackled. “No cowardice, just strategy. Brace yourself,” and another fiery jet arced toward Nicky.

It was no use, Nicky realized. Merrick had the right of it; all he had to do was keep spitting flame, and eventually Nicky would falter. Gout after gout collided with the shield—but were the breaks in between getting longer? Only by a few seconds each time, but Nicky thought they were. He would have to time his move right—

Instead of the next burst, Nicky heard Merrick cry out. He straightened and saw a small red and a small blue light darting around Merrick’s face. “Pestilent little nuisances!” Merrick cried, and the red one slammed itself into one of his eyes. Merrick screamed and reared back, and Nicky took his chance, heaving the sword back and throwing it as hard as he could.

Nicky had always been good at darts. The soldiers he played with in the palace tavern decried him as a cheater and a fake, always with a good-hearted laugh and a clap on the shoulder. Nicky had always set it down to natural talent.

The talent held; the sword buried itself in Merrick’s chest, right where a heart would be if he were still human. Merrick screamed again, louder and more terrible, until Nicky had to cover his ears or fall to his knees.

The red and blue lights swarmed toward him. “Get back get back get back—” Andy yelled. Nicky, hands still clamped over his ears, stumbled back to the far side of the courtyard as Merrick thrashed and screamed and slumped, until he finally fell silent and prone, draped over one wall of the courtyard, massive head thunking down into the cobblestones.

“Is he dead?” Nicky asked, removing his hands. Before one of the fairies could answer, a wind picked up, and Merrick’s corpse seemed to sublimate before his eyes, vaporizing until there was nothing but a long black smear across the ground.

“Well done, kid,” Andy told him. “Now, see that door at the base of the tower?” Nicky did, now that Merrick’s bulk was gone. “Through that door and up the stairs waits your love.”

“How do I wake him?” Nicky asked.

“You’ll know,” Quynh said. “Do what you wanted to do the last time you saw him. We’ll go let the court know that Merrick is defeated.”

 _Do what you wanted to do the last time you saw him._ There was only one thing that could mean.

The stairs were not rickety, like Nicky had expected, nor dusty or full of cobwebs. He pitied the servant who had to clean them, for they _were_ steep and narrow. He climbed until his legs ached, and then came into a room at the top. There was a wide window, but what drew his eyes was the bed, and the figure stretched out atop it.

His love looked beautiful, even in enchanted sleep, although what Nicky loved most about him was the animation in his face as he moved and talked. His hands were folded on his breast, and his clothes were finer than the ones he had worn when they had met.

There was a little space between his hip and the edge of the bed. Nicky sat carefully and picked up one of his hands. It was warm, and fit perfectly in his own. “Forgive me, my love,” he murmured, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to Prince Yusuf’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Injury: Nicky dislocates one of his thumbs to escape a set of manacles. It's healed again within a few paragraphs.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al-Tayyib sighed as he awoke, something warm and soft pressed against his mouth. The something warm and soft sighed back, and al-Tayyib’s eyes flew open.

Al-Tayyib sighed as he awoke, something warm and soft pressed against his mouth. The something warm and soft sighed back, and al-Tayyib’s eyes flew open.

The man who had been kissing him—his stranger, he was startled to realize, Nicky—leaned back. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding a hand up as if to gentle him. “I did not mean to frighten you, but there was no other way to wake you.”

“A shake to the shoulder wouldn’t have sufficed?” al-Tayyib asked, and then the memories of when he was last awake came rushing back. The trip to the palace, his real identity, the strange artifact with the sharp spike. “My sleep was enchanted,” he said slowly, putting the pieces together. “The curse my aunts and uncle mentioned.”

“Yes,” the stranger said. “It seems the answer was true love’s kiss.”

“True love?” al-Tayyib—Yusuf—asked teasingly. “That’s awfully presumptive of you.”

Nicky put a hand to his cheek. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, voice pitched low.

Yusuf couldn’t do it. Instead he said, “I don’t even know your full name.”

His stranger smiled. “Nicky  _ is _ my name,” he said softly. “Prince Nicolò, properly, but to you, Nicky.”

“Nicky,” Yusuf said, trying it out. “I am... Well, I suppose I am Prince Yusuf, although until yesterday I understood my name to be al-Tayyib. Was it yesterday? How long have I been asleep?”

“A little longer than a day, to my tally,” Nicky said. “The fairies went ahead to tell your family and my father that Merrick was killed, and that I had come to wake you. They’ll be waiting for us.”

“Merrick?” Yusuf asked, frowning.

“The fairy who cursed you,” Nicky said. “Terrifying, but he is no more.”

“Thanks to you?”

Nicky, delightfully, blushed. It was a mottled, splotchy thing across his cheeks. Yusuf loved it at once. “With some help from the fairies.”

“My hero.” Yusuf bit his lip. “It seems unfair to me that I was asleep for our first kiss,” he said lightly, and Nicky’s eyes snapped to his. His hand was still on Yusuf’s face, fingers stroking carefully across his skin. “I missed it almost entirely.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Nicky murmured. “With your permission...” He leaned in, and Yusuf unhesitatingly met him halfway.

Nicky’s lips were like silk, but warm, almost hot against Yusuf’s own. His breath on Yusuf’s cheek was like the gust of a spring breeze, gentle and calming. On instinct Yusuf parted his lips, and experienced the wonderful pleasure of Nicky’s tongue entering his mouth, hesitant at first and then confident.

It had to end at some point, but they lingered as long as they could, breathing together. Yusuf let his eyes stay closed for a long moment after Nicky pulled away, before opening them and looking at his love’s face. “Not presumptuous after all,” he breathed, and was graced with Nicky’s smile.

“Are you ready to go down and see your family?” Nicky asked, taking Yusuf’s hand.

“No,” Yusuf said. “I have never met them. My aunts and uncle are the only family I have ever known. But I know I must.” He squeezed Nicky’s fingers. “It will be easier with you.”

Nicky lifted his hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then stood, drawing Yusuf up after him. “We will face them together,” he said, and Yusuf could not help but smile at him.

The stairwell was too narrow for them to walk abreast, so Nicky led him down the stairs, their hands still linked together. When they emerged from the door at the bottom, blinking in the sunlight, Aunt Andy, Aunt Quynh, and Uncle Booker were standing there. “Yusuf,” Aunt Quynh said, coming forward to wrap him in her arms. He had to let go of Nicky to hug her back, but his hand was still there when the hug was finished, waiting for Yusuf’s.

“The King and Queen are waiting for you,” Aunt Andy said. “Come with us.” She turned on her heel, and the three adults—the three  _ fairies, _ Yusuf now knew—led them to the palace proper.

Yusuf had spent his life in a cottage half the size of a royal stable, so his first impression upon entering the receiving hall was one of sheer size, especially since it was empty save for three figures standing by the thrones. “The one on the left is my father,” Nicky murmured in his ear, gesturing. “The other two are your parents.”

Yusuf could have guessed that without being told; the cottage had had a mirror, and he had seen his own reflection in the creek many times besides. He saw his nose and the line of his brow reflected in the King’s face, and when the Queen smiled at him, it was with his own smile. “Our son,” the King said, coming forward to take his hands. “At long last.”

“Your Majesty,” Yusuf said, and then caught himself. “Father.”

“Call me whatever you like, although I have always found  _ Your Majesty _ a little overly formal for friends and family,” the King said. “I know we will have to work up to  _ Father. _ I have not seen you for eighteen years.”

Yusuf reached back for Nicky’s hand again. It was waiting for him, as it had been before. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yes,” the King said, smiling warmly. “Yes, you are.”

“And you,” Nicky’s father said to his son. “Where the devil were you, boy?”

“At first I was falling in love,” Nicky said, and Yusuf smiled at him. “Then I was kidnapped by Merrick. But I made it where I was needed in the end.”

“Yes, well,” the Doge grumbled, and then what Nicky had said seemed to register with him. “Falling in love? With whom?”

“With Prince Yusuf, of course,” Nicky said.

“How could you have? He wasn’t at the palace when we arrived!”

“I met him in the woods,” Nicky said, “and we danced together.”

The Doge snorted. “That’s all it took to win your heart? A dance?”

Aunt Andy stepped forward hastily. “And let us all be grateful for it,” she said, “for if the love had not been true, Prince Yusuf would not be with us now.”

“Yes, Giovani,” the King said. “It has all turned out for the best.”

Doge Giovani looked rather like he wanted to be grumpy for a good while longer, but so pressed, he could do nothing but sigh and agree. Yusuf bit back a smile; when he looked at the Queen’s face, she was doing the same. Her eyes twinkled at him.

“We should talk about the wedding,” Aunt Quynh said. “Originally it was scheduled for tomorrow, but that seems a little short-notice at this point.”

_ Wedding? _ Yusuf tensed. Next to him, Nicky said, “Can I have a moment alone with Yusuf?”

The Doge gaped at him, but Uncle Booker said, “Of course. Your Majesties, I want to talk about Merrick’s estate, now that he’s no longer with us.” As he pulled the King and Queen into conversation, Nicky drew Yusuf away.

“We don’t have to go through with it,” he said solemnly, looking into Yusuf’s eyes. Outside of the forest, his own were less green, more blue. Yusuf liked them just as much. “We can put it off, give us some breathing room.”

Yusuf frowned. “I don’t think your father will take kindly to that.”

“We need the alliance,” Nicky admitted ruefully. “It’s been established since we were betrothed, and Genoa has benefited greatly from its association with Maghreb.”

“Do you know what’s in it for us?”

“Trade routes, mostly,” Nicky said. “Genoa has a strong merchant navy.”

Yusuf bit his lip. “And you?” he asked, putting a smile into his voice. “What do you need from a marriage?”

Nicky flushed again. “I just need you.”

Yusuf leaned forward and kissed him. “Then let’s get married,” he said softly. “Because I need you too.”

Yusuf led Nicky back to their parents and his aunts and uncle. “What have you decided?” the Queen asked, looking at them knowingly.

“We’ll marry,” Yusuf said. “Not tomorrow, but quickly. As quickly as is reasonable.”

“I think we can have everything arranged within the week,” Aunt Quynh said. “Most of the guests are here already, since it was supposed to be tomorrow, and we can get them to stay an extra week.”

“A week it is,” Yusuf said. “If that’s alright with you?” he added, looking at Nicky.

“A week is too long,” Nicky said, glowing at him. “A day is too long, an hour, a minute.”

Yusuf laughed. “A week it is,” he said again, looking at the Queen.

“Perfect,” she said. “Quynh, I’ll need you for the details.”

“I’m at your disposal, Your Majesty,” Aunt Quynh said.

“And Sebastien, I need to start drawing up plans for what we were discussing,” the King said. “Come with me to my office?”

The four men and women drifted off. Aunt Andy presented herself in front of Yusuf and Nicky. “This will be your last few hours alone together before you’re married,” she said, grinning at them. “I suggest you make good use of them.” With that, she turned on her heel and left in a third direction.

Suddenly awkward, Yusuf rubbed the back of his neck. “What shall we do?” he asked.

Nicky gave him a bashful smile. “I’ve only been here a few days,” he said, “but I do know the palace a little bit by now. I could show you around? Do some exploring of our new home?”

“That sounds lovely,” Yusuf said, smiling at him and taking his hand. “Can we start with the kitchens?”

“Oh, yes, I’m  _ starving,” _ Nicky said fervently. Yusuf laughed and followed him out of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://thewalrus-said.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/thewalrus_said)!


End file.
